


Blood and Sugar

by phrynne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood, Boys In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Getting Back Together, Harry Potter POV, Healing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Pain, Porn with Feelings, Self-Destruction, Switching, Talking, Tea, Top Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, breaking up, healing spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-19 17:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13128477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrynne/pseuds/phrynne
Summary: I wonder again if this, his touch, is the reason I keep taking hits on the field and not giving a flying fuck what happens to me.





	1. Blood

**Author's Note:**

> I realise this is not a happy Christmas tale, but angst is back again in my writing. I had this stuffed away for months and gave it a go again over the holidays. This is angst and the happy ending only comes in chapter 2, which I'm currently writing. I'm thinking no one will read this on Christmas Eve, but I had to write it anyway. So here it is. 
> 
> This is for those in the dark.

I’m at his door again. 

Warm blood trickles down my face, it drenches my jacket. Drops of blood fall on his perfect marble white floor. I watch the bloodstain forming in front of my feet. He won’t be happy. I wonder if this time he’s going to make good on his promise and hex my bollocks off. The thought doesn’t bother me at all; the idea of eliciting such a reaction from him has a pleasing ring to it. I guess this shows how fucked up I am, and I really couldn’t care less.

I lift my hand and press my finger against his doorbell. Pain shoots up my arm and I ignore it, as I’m ignoring the fact that I shouldn’t be here. The shrill noise of the doorbell is familiar, it eases the weight on my chest. I taste blood on my lips. There’s a deep gash on my left cheek. Another along my chest and down my stomach. Multiple stinging hexes. I still got the bastard in the end. He won’t be using a wand soon, if ever. I tried to spell the wounds shut, but my wand arm hurts badly and doing it wandlessly might be too dangerous, even for me. So I ended up here.

I recognize his steps inside the apartment - fast, assured. I lean against the white door, a deep pang of pain shooting up my sides, my chest. My legs shake and I don’t know how much longer I can keep standing. 

The door swings open, he’s there, I lose my balance and fall forwards.

‘What the fuck?...’

He catches me in his arms in the last minute. He barely holds me up, struggling under my weight. I want to help, I really do, but the strength in my legs is gone. I stagger, my hands on his arms for support. Everything sways in front of my eyes. My head falls on his shoulder and the door closes behind us. My eyes focus on a single spot, a perfect red circle, marring the white fabric of his shirt. My blood. Staining his impeccably ironed, button-down shirt. He’s going to hex me, I’m sure. 

‘Potter. What the fuck happened to you this time?’

He’s mad at me, I can tell. He pulls me up against the wall, and looks at me. His eyes travel from my face, down my neck, to my hand clutching at my chest, my blood-covered Auror uniform, my trembling legs and, at last, my bloodstained boots. There are smudges of blood on his floor, and probably on this wall I’m leaning on. He looks paler than I remember him being. His eyes focus on mine. It’s only for a second, but I see that he cares, even if he doesn’t want to. Then, the cold mask I know so well falls into place, almost seamless. The grey eyes survey me. They look like the skies before heavy rain. Menacing, but still contained.

‘Can I come in?’ I ask, my voice faint. It’s a stupid question, I know.

He doesn’t bother answering it. My eyes drift closed. He must hate me for showing up here again like this. I don’t blame him.

‘You’re losing too much blood,’ he says. It’s a clinical observation, intent on sounding cold, but that sort of trick doesn’t work on me anymore. 

I manage to open my eyes and I’m not surprised to find him holding his wand. The air around us feels charged with his magic, soft tendrils gathering me in a strange warmth. His magic can’t lie, unlike him. In any case, it’s more welcoming than his cold eyes. His jaw clenches, and I know he’s fighting with himself. He knows he shouldn’t have let me in.

I sway, as something black speeds fast before my eyes. I’m going to faint in Draco Malfoy’s entrance hall. There’s something poetic about the idea. Some chance I might wake up later, tucked in his bed, with him sitting on a chair close by, watching me sleep. Maybe if I’m knocked out, he’ll finally let me spend the night. It’s so pathetic, I have an insane urge to laugh at myself. So I do. Then, naturally, everything becomes dark. 

When I open my eyes, his living room comes into view. I’m lying on his couch. If I remember correctly, it’s a luxury Italian model, upholstered in white fabric. I’m currently bleeding all over it, and also on the embroidered dark blue pillows. I realise he hasn’t hexed me yet. Not for this, or his shirt, or his floor, or his wall. So that’s it, then. Draco Malfoy must really like me in some way, no matter what he wants me to believe.

‘Sorry ‘bout the blood,’ I whisper when he walks into the room, a flask in one hand, his wand in the other. 

His mouth is a thin, almost white, line. Tense. He doesn’t look at me. 

‘Draco...’ 

Saying his name like this is a mistake, but I can’t help it. 

‘I know what you’re doing,’ he snaps, his eyes fixed on some point above my head. Beyond the pain I feel, there’s this thrill of joy at his reaction. It’s insanely good, it scares me, and it makes the pain recede to the back of my mind, all at once. 

He walks over and my body tenses with the chance of closeness, even though he’s mad at me and he has every reason to be. He kneels down next to me, sets the flask and wand on the glass side table. When he touches me, I become aware of every place in my body hurting so badly that even his gentle hands make me ache. He’s quiet as he works my jacket open, then my shirt. His grey eyes are fixed on some point beyond me, but his hands know what they’re doing. 

I let my eyes close and his hands roam over me, applying the Dittany and, for a moment, there’s only burning and searing pain, and I wonder again if this, his touch, is the reason I keep taking hits on the field and not giving a flying fuck what happens to me. 

Even with my eyes closed I know how he looks right now. His narrow face tilted down, the slight furrow over his brow, his long hair falling over his cheek, his lips a thin straight line I so want to disturb, his hands swift and careful, the tips of his fingers trailing over my skin. He wants them to be impersonal, but they’re anything but.

‘Shut up, or I’ll hex you worse than this,’ he says. His voice shakes, like his hands over me.

I manage to bite down whatever words I was going to say, because it would be something wrong, something along the lines of: I miss you. 

But I do. Every fucking day. 

‘I’m going to finish applying the Dittany and then I want you out of my house. I don’t want to see you ever again.’

He’s lying, and he knows it, and I know it, and he knows that I know. It’s all out in the open, the mutual torture, mutual deceit. I open my eyes. I catch him looking away from my face, eyes darting fast to his hands closing the flask. 

‘You know that’s not what’s going to happen, Draco.’

I love the sound of his name, disturbing the silence and him; I always get the feeling this name brings me closer to the depths of him. He pretends it doesn’t affect him, but it does. I fear the moment when it’ll stop working. When this maddening spell between us will fall apart. Everytime I see him, I fear that’ll be it. I fear it now. 

He doesn’t say anything for a while. He presses the tip of his wand over the gash on my face. He mutters the incantation and his magic spreads gently over me, a soft web reaching wide and closing down the wound. His wand moves to my chest, and my skin starts knitting back together. I want to say thank you, but I know he’ll throw me out faster if I do. 

I manage to lift my hand and catch his wrist. His wand falls on the carpet with no sound.

‘You can’t just show up here again and expect me to-’ he doesn’t finish, his eyes averted from mine. God, I can feel the pain in his voice. Maybe I should leave. 

He finally looks at me. His eyes are wet. 

‘You fucking bastard, Harry.’

It’s the fact that he uses my name, that does it. 

I pull him down and kiss him. He’s blood and sugar in my mouth. He always tastes so sweet. My hands catch on his hair and I inhale the scent of almonds, flowers, and something undefinable and definitely  _ him _ . Something I can’t find anywhere else. 

He bites hard on my lip. He wants to hurt me and I let him. He draws blood on my lip and licks over it. I cry out and bring him closer. I kiss down his jaw, his neck, his scent making me lose all sense of right and wrong. His hands are on my chest, I’m vaguely aware of pain, but I’m already pulling at his shirt. 

‘You can’t always have what you want,’ he says, breathless, but he lets me take his shirt off, and trail my hands down his back. 

I don’t say anything, I’m afraid I’ll break this fragile thing we have. My fingers dig into his shoulders and he arches up against me. He keeps his moan inside, but I want it out. We’re kissing again. He takes my jacket off, then my shirt and he’s not hurting me anymore. He kisses the corner of my lips, then my neck, his hands cradling my face. There’s such gentleness in him, it makes my heart snap. My hands drop to his arse and somehow I manage to sit us up, too aware of all the places he’s touching me now. He straddles me, his legs gripping hard around my thighs. My body is wrecked badly, but I’m an expert at ignoring it. And with him on me, it’s just too easy to forget everything. My cock is filling up under him, pressing against his bulge. He pins me down against the couch.

‘Fuck you, Potter,’ he says, and I feel the bite in his voice. Then his teeth are on my neck. I tilt my head back and let him bite harder, my hands on his hips.

‘For once you should just fucking go to St. Mungo’s, let them deal with your shitty recklessness,’ he says in a rush. I feel dizzy. My hands trail down his chest, treading over his blond hairs, then down his stomach. Draco is leaner than me, he’s not all muscle and I love that he can still take the lead with me. He doesn’t even know how much power he has over me. 

‘They can’t give me what I want in there,’ I whisper against his chest. What I mean to say is: no one takes care of me like you do. 

He stills over me. There’s only silence and I notice my hands covered in dried blood over his white skin. I look up and there’s blood on his cheek and on a strand of his hair. He wants to tell me to go. To fuck off. He also wants what I want, which is for him to take me upstairs to his bedroom and fuck me. I can’t look away from him, and I can’t speak. I let him decide.

He looks down at his wand, and accioes it with a nonverbal wandless spell. He points it at me, and mutters another incantation. It’s only when the wand touches my chest that I notice I’m bleeding again and the pain comes back with blinding force. I gasp, my hands clench on his hips. He lets me cling to him until the pain subsides. He finishes the spell, my skin warm and throbbing, stitched perfectly. My head hurts and I let it fall down on his chest, my arms coming up around him. His fall down to my lower back, pushing us closer together. I notice he’s hard and it’s no surprise because this is us. Fucked up, aroused and lost. 

I look up at him. 

‘Just fuck me… hard and long. That’s all I need.’

I don’t even say please. I’m already pleading with all my body, hard, battered, under him. I’m aware of his split second hesitation, of the shadows in his eyes, and then his mouth crashes over mine and I feel the swirl of Apparition. We land by his bed, I almost fall down, but he has me, his hand is over my hip, then down over my arse, and then we’re kissing and taking the rest of our clothes, his hands on my flies, mine pulling his pants down. I could do this with my eyes shut, the way I’ve come to know his body, his clothes. 

In no time at all I’m where I wanted to be, lying naked under him, and he’s pressing my arms hard against the mattress, and my legs spread under him, as if told to. I wrap them around his narrow hips and pull him to me. He comes willingly, his whole body touching mine, his hard cock against my groin. 

‘Do you want me?’ I ask, because when Draco has me on his bed I get shy and unsure. ‘Tell me you want me,’ I say, because I need him to. 

He looks aroused and fucking scared of this, of us. I scare the hell out of him, I’m too much, and not enough. 

He moves down over me, spreads my legs wider.

‘I wish I didn’t,’ he says and then he sucks me down. I don’t scream, but my mouth falls open in silence, my fingers close down on the sheets and then all I know is him, his mouth, his wetness, his fingers nudging at my hole, spelling me open and slick, and then he’s there too. I push down, too fast, it hurts, but I can’t stop. He lifts his head, my cock slipping out of his mouth, threads of saliva connecting us and he’s a sight I want to never obliviate. 

‘Is this okay?’ he asks, raw. 

I shut my eyes, press my hips down, two of his fingers slipping further inside me. They stretch me, and it fucking hurts. Still I want it. And more. 

‘I just want to look good for you… Last night at the function, I was trying to catch your eye. I wanted you to come after me, I wanted you to… I waited.’

I did. I didn’t sleep all night. And I think he didn’t either. He has dark circles under his eyes.

‘And because I didn’t show up, you try to get yourself killed the next chance you get, is that it?’

God, he looks cross with me, and desperate. He pulls his fingers slowly out and then presses them back in. The angle is almost perfect. I can’t stop a moan.

‘Didn’t do it on purpose,’ I struggle to say. I lift my hips slowly, then push them down. His fingers twist inside me and it’s good. ‘I’m not  _ that  _ crazy. It just happened.’

But I’m not sure this is the truth.

‘Just happened,’ he repeats. His fingers slip out of me and I’m afraid he’s going to leave me like this.

But then he rises over me, lifts my legs over his shoulders, and without a word his cock is there. I have a second to tell my body I want this, I need him. The next second he’s splitting me open, a single long thrust inside me, unrelenting. He only stops when he’s fully seated inside me. I’m small and endless. Then he moves. 

He fucks me like he means it. There’s no pretence now. He’s gentle with me, slow, his hand tangles in my hair, holding me in place as he fucks me. This is what I need. I sob against his open mouth and he goes deeper. I don’t care what sounds I make now. The sob turns into a moan, into a cry. I strangle all the things I can’t tell him and instead beg him to fuck me. My hips lift up to meet his thrusts, and he’s this all-encompassing, unrelenting force, the only force in my life I don’t want to fight off. I wish to succumb to him. If only he’d let me. 

‘You’re trying to kill me,’ he says, and I wish he knew that’s exactly how me makes me feel. He punctuates his next words with his thrusts, and I’m about to lose my mind. ‘Don’t ever show up here again.’

‘Draco,’ I mutter, lost. My body tenses, my back arches off the bed and it’s all too much.

‘Are you going to come for me, baby?’ he asks, sweetly, and that’s when he breaks me.  My eyes shot open, my face wet, my hole so full of him. He swims in front of my eyes, all sharp angles and soft hair. Those eyes like rain. I lift my hand to his face. 

‘I miss you.’ 

His lips fall open, and he comes inside me, his neck corded, his body a long line of pain and pleasure, and I take him in, my cock spurting untouched between us. 

I feel whole and in pain and his mouth covers mine, taking the rest of me apart.

 

***

 

I wake up in semi-darkness. I know it’s time to leave. My body still aches, but I’m healed. He’s sleeping against me, his arm around my waist, his breath soft against my throat. He looks peaceful like this, more than I’ve ever seen him. I like to imagine he only looks like this when he sleeps with me. 

I pry myself from under the blankets, away from the warmth, careful not to wake him. He only has two rules for our arrangement and I can’t break them. 

I search for my scattered clothes, and dress in silence. I’ve grown used to do all these mechanical things in darkness. I’m buttoning down my trousers when I feel his eyes on me. I slow down, let him watch me. I close the last button, and sit on the bed, putting on my shoes. 

I don’t turn back and lean over to have a last taste of him.  No kisses without sex, that’s his second rule. I stand up and I stay like that for a second more than I should.

‘Just go. We’re done.’

It’s only a whisper, but loud in my ears. 

I should probably use his Floo, but suddenly I can’t. I take my wand and Disapparate. It’s more like disintegrate. 

But he’ll never know.


	2. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Why am I here, Harry?’
> 
> I can’t quite describe the smile he gives me then. I can only say it makes me ache.
> 
> ‘‘Cause you have bad taste in hair?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the happy ending, my sweets. I spent the whole day writing this. Hope you like it. Take care.

I almost feel sober at the sight of his door. It’s only for the barest moment, but there’s something so real about it, so right. The dark wood is hard evidence amidst this world turned to grey. I stagger for the door like a man who’s lost all sense of self-preservation. Yeah, the War changed me. Look at me.

I’m thoroughly drunk and drenched to the bone. I’m only wearing a thin white shirt and a grey wool jumper, with my tightest black trousers. Pansy says I look even hotter in Muggle clothes. A part of me is intent on testing her theory tonight, just not in the way she intended me to.

Thing is I decided to walk all the way over here under heavy rain, after drinking myself to a reckless sense of purpose. Even this drunk, I’m quite aware that I shouldn’t be here, not tonight, not ever. This time, it really feels like we’re over, and I was the one to break it, break us.

So of course I have to fuck it all up again. That’s what we both seem to do best.

I ring the doorbell and count the idents on his old door. I’m purposefully not thinking of him. It’s 3 a.m. Maybe he has someone warming his bed. He must have. Maybe he’s not even in. Maybe he’s sleeping on another bed. With another. I can still go back to my apartment, take a hungover potion and Sleeping Draught and sleep myself into another day. No one will have to know of this momentary lapse in judgement. No one will have to know that on the first night in  months that I go out to pull, I leave the bar where I’m supposed to be dancing and grinding against nameless men and instead come here. Pansy can’t know. She already thinks I’m a hopeless case.

There are forty five indents carved on the door. It makes no sense that the Golden Boy lives in a house tainted with so much darkness, a house that links him to my family even. Or maybe it does. Few people know this about the Chosen One, but the truth is: there’s something dark about him. Something that makes him all too eager to be hit by curses and hexes. Something that makes him come look for me when he’s battered and bleeding to death. And it’s not just his fucking hero complex. The War left its mark on him, just as it did with me.

I lift my hand to trace one of the carvings with my index finger.

The door opens and I’m left there, with my hand still up in the air, rain falling on my hair, cold seeping through me. I can only see half of his face, one green eye, half a mouth, half disheveled hair. He looks half good.

I lower my hand. We stare at each other in silence. There’s only the rain, and the yellow light around him. I mean to say something snarky; nothing comes out. The corridor where he stands sways in front of my eyes. I stumble inside and he catches me in his arms. There’s a rush of information short-circuiting my brain all at once. His hand on my hip, warm over my soaked jumper; the scent of strawberries and Firewhisky when my nose comes too close to his neck; his eyes like two pools of questions.

I get away from him as fast as I can, and stagger through his corridor, like he’s invited me in. I hear the door closing behind me. If there’s another man in here, I’ll find him. With luck, I might even throw up on him. The thought makes me smile.

I reach the foot of the stairs and grab hold of the railing. I take one step and I scream, willing my voice to be heard loud and clear:

‘So sorry to disturb what must surely be an otherworldly shag with Our Saviour. Did he tell you he likes to fuck around with pretty blondes?’

My voice echoes shrill and loud in the house. I feel him right behind me.

‘Who’re you talking to?’

I whirl around, distressed by his all-reasonable tone. Does he think I’m crazy? ‘Cause I’m not.

‘Just excusing myself to your shag, it’s only polite. Don’t let it be said that ex-Death-Eaters and pureblood conceited prats don’t have manners,’ I give him my best dazzling smile, feeling the clothes clinging to my skin. He looks utterly lost.

‘Do you have him hiding upstairs? Afraid of the crazy ex-fuck? Ex-lover? Can’t quite decide on the best term here, any suggestions?’

I can’t take the sight of those eyes, so I stalk away to his kitchen. Everything looks the same as I remember. Cozy, warm. The big table is there, with the sugar bowl on it. He must have fixed it, then. The first time I had him was here. I was drunk, he was bleeding from a cut on his lip and before I knew it we were kissing, his blood and tongue in my mouth, his hands pressing me against the counter, his cock hard against my thigh. When he asked me to bend him over the table and fuck him to oblivion, I did. It was brilliant. I slammed inside him, with close to no preparation, making the sugar bowl topple and shatter on the table. I fucked him over the sugar grains, and he came screaming, his come splattering over the sugar. The sight of it, together with his cry ringing in my ears, gave me the best orgasm of my life.

I yank my eyes from the sugar bowl and turn to face him. He’s at the kitchen door, dressed in a pair of pyjamas. I notice they’re green and he looks so good in green. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. My hands grip a wooden chair. It helps steady me.

‘So. Where is he?’

I swear I didn’t mean to ask this, but it comes out matter-of-factly, like I’m asking about the weather. I regret it as soon as the words leave my mouth and wish to take them back. He frowns in confusion.

‘Who?’

I want to cry and scream and laugh, all at the same time. I realise there’s no one. There’s no one in his bed. There probably never was, not in all this time. Only me. I don’t even know what that makes me feel, so I keep talking.

‘I was at a bar,’ I say. ‘Pansy made me.’

Because I was on self-imposed house arrest for anything other than work. He just stares at me. I release the chair and go around the table, staggering slightly. I feel colder by the minute and all the more purposeful.  

‘There was this hot bloke,’ I say. My words come out slurred, slow, but I can’t stop them from coming. ‘He tried to pull me. He actually did… pull me, I mean,’ I smile and look up at Harry and he’s looking back at me. There’s something hopeless about him. It’s as if he’s been expecting this for a long time. ‘He had really nice hair. Neat. Tidy hair.’

Harry blinks. He looks so fucking sad I want to spit on his face just to make him have some sort of reaction.

‘Neat is nice,’ he says after a while. ‘I like neat hair.’

I don’t think twice about what he means by that. My own hair is plastered to my face, but I know I look good anyway. I play with the seams of my jumper. Harry likes me in Muggle clothes. He likes me better without them.

I tuck a hair lock behind my ear, and trace my fingers over the table.

‘He had neat hair. And quite an arse,’ I say, remembering the feel of it in my hands when he kissed me. The arse was a nice distraction, since he wasn’t a great kisser. Not when my standard is Harry fucking Potter and his maddening mouth.

‘It’s been a while since I kissed someone without blood being involved. ‘Kinda nice for a change,’ I lie and lean back against the counter to watch him.

Harry just gives me one defeated smile.

‘He sounds like a catch, Draco. Was he nice?’

It’s like he won’t fight me, or my words, or this stupid bloke that had his hands inside my pants an hour ago. Like he’s given up on whatever this is between us. _Was_. I can’t stand it, or his face.

‘Very,’ I say coldly.

None of us speaks for a moment.

‘He wanted to come over to mine,’ I say conversationally.

Like I’m confiding in Pansy or Blaise and not the man I’ve been sleeping with on and off for months. The man my best friends are certain I have feelings for. My only crush since forever.

‘I wanted him to,’ I go on. ‘I wanted him to fuck me on my bed. So I said I was going to the loo. And came here.’

I stare at the table. There’s a dark smudge in the wood, next to the sugar bowl. I remember Harry’s splayed hands there, scrambling for purchase as I fucked him good. I remember how he begged. How I lost myself that night.

‘He had fucking nice hair,’ I repeat. My voice goes up a notch in the quiet kitchen. ‘Tidy, nothing like yours!’

I look up at him, the table between us. He looks devastated, on the other side of the world. There’s some part of me that delights in the fact that I was the one to put that look on his face. He hates the idea of anyone else having me. Problem is: I hate it too.

‘Why am I here, Harry?’

I can’t quite describe the smile he gives me then. I can only say it makes me ache.

‘‘Cause you have bad taste in hair?’

I feel like laughing, but it’s stuck in my throat.

‘That’s the thing,’ I say and I trace the smudge on the table with my fingernails. I know he remembers it too. It’s all in the way he’s silent, unmoving. Like he’s afraid I’ll go up in smoke if only he moves too fast. I’m not sure I won’t.

‘I used to have great taste in everything,’ I say, and the laugh is out suddenly. It sounds hollow. I pick up the sugar bowl. ‘I left a perfectly good bloke there.’

My fingers wrap around the bowl. I once dreamt of a life with kitchens and sugar bowls like this one. That dream had something to do with Christmas dinners, late morning breakfasts, a big family, the smell of delicious food and me sucking Harry’s fingers covered in sugar. I don’t like that being drunk makes me philosophical. Or think impossible things. I don’t like that it makes me speak the truth.

‘I left him there because I can’t stop thinking about you,’ I say. My voice is almost light, easy. I want to break his fucking sugar bowl again. Or his heart. I grip it harder, the bowl shakes in my hands. ‘And I’ve already had you. Several times. Maybe he’s a fantastic fuck, maybe he would make me forget you, maybe I could stop missing you, but yet here I am.’

I hear him take a deep breath. He moves quietly around the table and I don’t step back to maintain the distance.

‘I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t fucking work and I fought way too hard to be where I am at the Ministry,’ I say. ‘Not all of us are famous War heroes and have our jobs guaranteed because we’re fucking reckless and not afraid to die.’

‘I’m always afraid,’ he says quietly. He’s right next to me, so much so that I feel his warmth reaching the tips of my fingers still tight around the bowl.

‘You’re shaking, Draco,’ he lifts his hand and I step away from him. He silently accioes his wand. It enters the kitchen and he catches it in his hand, without even looking.

‘Let me do a warming spell. Please.’

I want to say no, tell him to fuck off, to quit his saviour ways.

Instead, I nod.

His magic tingles over my skin. My clothes dry instantly and I remember what warmth feels like. I still feel dizzy from the all the wine I drank tonight, but now he’s so close I forget I’m supposed to be mad at him, for some reason I don’t even understand.

‘I’m so sorry...’ he says. ‘Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything.’

I don’t know what I’m going to say until it’s out.

‘I came here to kindly ask you to fuck me,’ I say, my voice in its usual drawl. I set the bowl on the counter. It clinks brightly between us. ‘Since I can’t seem to get you out of my system, I might as well get you in. Deep.’

I take a step towards him. His eyes rake my face. There’s a wall of warmth rising before me, his whole body barely an inch away. I feel his all-encompassing need to touch me, so I edge him on.

‘Fuck my brains out, Harry. Here on this table. Fuck me until I forget neat hair and having good taste.’

I’m hard against him. He feels it too, against his groin. I can almost taste the fight in him. He clenches his jaw, his hand curls at his side.  

‘We’re not having sex,’ he says. There’s that stubborn look in his eyes. He’s going for what’s right instead of what’s easy. ‘Not like this. You’re drunk.’

I swear I want to slap him. An intense laugh rips out of me. My eyes water.

‘You’re so fucking noble, Harry James Potter,’ I bite the words out, throwing them at his face. ‘I don’t want you to keep away, I fucking want you to fight for me, can’t you see it?’

The want in his eyes is so clear that for a moment I think he’s going to drop to his knees in front of me and suck me off. The thought surely crosses his mind, because he looks down, eyes fixed on the bulge in my trousers.

Then he looks up, his eyes bright. That fire I thought was all but gone is there again.

‘I’m going to make us some tea,’ he says simply. ‘And you need a hangover potion.’

I’m speechless for a moment, watching him casually opening up a cabinet, picking up two teacups and a teapot. He fills it with water, then points his wand at it. The water starts to boil.

‘Have a sit, Draco.’

That seems to unfreeze me.

‘Here I am throwing myself at you and your fucking answer is _have some freaking tea_?’

He laughs. Then he turns his back on me and opens another cabinet, taking a small flask and setting it on the table. The fucking hangover potion. He’s not making me drink that, I’ll fucking throw it at his face.

He looks all calm and collected as he waves his wand around, setting the table neatly, like we’re a loving couple having a late night snack. It’s when he sets a plate with cookies on the table - mentioning something about Mrs Weasley having sent them - that I go crazy.  

‘What do I need to do for you to stop this charade and fuck me?’ I walk over to him, and pull my sweater off, drop it to the floor, and then start on the buttons on my shirt. ‘Do you want a show, Harry?’ I ease two buttons open and let my hands trail down my chest and stomach and then I cup myself through my trousers.

I have his full attention now. His chest is heaving, the water boils, my fingers trail over the outline of my cock.

‘Have me over this table, Harry. Stuff me with your cock until I’m ruined for everyone else.’

I don’t tell him I already am.

‘Don’t you want me?’ I ask, and I know exactly how I look like now, needy and desperate.

My fingers pry open the buttons in my trousers. Harry takes a step closer. I want his hands on me so badly I’m not above begging. But I don’t have to, because suddenly he’s there. His hands cover mine, and then his fingers are trailing over my bulge and my hips snap forward. He leans over, his breath ghosting over my neck.

‘Baby,’ he whispers. And then his hands cup me and I’m in heaven, so desperate that I take too much time noticing what he’s actually doing.

Which is buttoning down my trousers.

He finishes on the last button and steps back. His face is tinged in red, his eyes shine with purpose, and I almost feel like he’s getting off on denying me now.

‘You fucker,’ I say, my voice low. He doesn’t seem worried. ‘If you’re not going to fuck me, I’m going to find someone who will. Tidy hair will fuck me.’

He gives me the first real smile not filled with sadness.

‘You don’t want him,’ he says. He sounds cocky, confident, and I curse my cock for enjoying that.

‘No,’ I say slowly, my voice trembling. ‘For some fucked-up reason, I only want you, but that’s my fucking problem, isn’t it?’

I have a second to realise I just made him snap. He pushes me hard against the table, and his erection presses against mine, real and warm. I lose my breath.

‘Don’t you fucking say that,’ he bites out. There’s that raw fire in his eyes again, the taint of darkness calling to me. ‘Fuck, Draco. I tried to abide by your rules. _Don't stay the night. Don't kiss me unless we're fucking._ I did everything you asked me too, and still you fucking broke up with me. I kept away, like you asked.’

The rules were supposed to help. They were meant to remind us we have nothing serious. Instead, they just ended up showing me how much I want him to break them all for me. How much I always wish he’d spend the night. How much I want him to kiss me without trying to get me naked.

‘I thought you hated rules. Suddenly you’re all well-behaved and proper,’ I say, and even I hear the feeble complaint in my voice.

‘You want me to show you how much I want you?’ his hand cups my face. I never had the chance to look into his eyes like this, without clothes being pulled off and cocks almost leaking. I’m hard, he’s hard, but it’s something on the background, underlying what’s really happening, which is: him, looking at me. Saying something important. He looks solemn.

‘We're not going to fuck. We’re having tea. And a hangover potion for you,’ he steps back, pulls back a chair for me to sit, and surprising even myself, I sit down without a retort. I watch him walk over to the counter, pick up the sugar bowl.

‘I fixed it,’ he says, with a brief, shy smile.

I can’t stop myself from smiling back.

‘I can see that.’

He takes a sit across me and pours the tea for us. He takes the flask and tips some drops on my tea.

‘Three sugars, right?’ he asks, but he’s already adding them to my tea and stirring. I’m amazed at the fact that this man knows how I take my tea, when I thought he only knew how I liked my cock sucked. I wonder what else he knows.

We sip the tea in silence. It warms me up inside and the cookies taste good, lemony and ginger.

‘I think this is the longest talk we’ve had since…’ I wave my hand.

‘Forever,’ he says, and takes another sip of his tea.

He looks at me and I have this perfect vision of the man I want to wake up to every fucking day of my life. I don’t know how to tell him that. At this thought, I realise the hungover potion just finished its job. I’m sober. And scared.

‘Harry,’ I say. I have no idea how to go on.

‘I know you hate talking feelings,’ he says very fast. ‘And I’m not the best at words either. I don’t want you to feel like you have to spill every fucking thought you have about us. But… we can’t keep doing this without talking. Some.’

I’m aware of my heart beating loudly on my throat.

‘You’re right,’ I whisper.

‘I can never reach you unless I’m injured and begging you to touch me,’ he says in the silence that follows. ‘You fuck me when I’m out of my mind with pain. I fuck you when you’re numb with drinking. I want more than that.’

I know this is fucked-up. There’s a part of me that craves being needed by him when he’s weak. And another part that wants to get lost in him when the alcohol can take the blame for my actions. At least when I’m fucking him I feel like someone wants me with everything that I am, all my fuck-ups, the damned mark in my arm, the tainted family name. He wants me like that, and for some unhealthy reason I need that to come from a place of pain and not love.

I stare at my empty teacup and realise I’ve been lost in thought. I reach out my hand and he holds it across the table. It’s a casual gesture, but it means the world.

‘I’m sober,’ I say. ‘Thank you,’ it’s a whisper, but he hears it. I understand now Harry would never take advantage of me while I’m drunk. He would never, because, in fact, he… He really...

‘You can’t like me,’ I say and squeeze his hand once, then take mine away and rise from the chair.

‘Thank you for the tea. It was what I needed.’

I go around the table and pick up my jumper from the floor. He’s there in an instant, his hand on my wrist.

‘You think you don’t deserve me,’ he says. ‘You’re wrong. Let me show you you’re wrong.’

I take some time to get the full meaning of his words. I don’t even notice the jumper falling to the floor again.

‘You mean…’

‘I want to date you.’

I laugh in his face.

‘That won’t work. We’re too complicated.’

A stubborn line shows up on his forehead.

‘Not impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible for you.’

He looks down at our joined hands.

‘You always kinda seemed to be. An impossible dream.’

Our hands look good together.  

‘I’m not. Impossible. Or a dream.’

‘Good, ‘cause I’m tired of dreams. Stay the night.’

‘You said no fucking,’ I say feebly. His hands wrap around my waist.

‘I said no fucking with blood or drinking involved.’

‘Oh.’

My _oh_ actually means yes, and I’m glad he gets it. He picks me up and my legs wrap around him and then he’s walking us out of the kitchen, towards the stairs.

‘If you drop me, I’ll hex you,’ I whisper against his throat. I nuzzle his neck. Gods, he smells like everything I love.

‘I thought we had a no blood agreement. No hexes.’

‘Fine,’ I say, as he starts climbing the stairs. All that Auror training clearly pays off. He doesn’t even break a sweat as we reach the first landing. I feel so safe, I even close my eyes.

‘You could kiss me now,’ I say eventually. ‘Since we’re not fucking.’

He chuckles against my hair. We get to his room and he drops me on the bed. I realise just how tired I am. I let him undress me, his hands gentle. I didn’t know how much I wanted him to undress me and not fuck me. It feels too good to be true. He moves away and I open one of my eyes to see him standing there holding a pair of red Gryffindor pyjamas.

‘You are delirious if you think I’m wearing those,’ I say and pull the covers over my naked body, closing my eyes and letting my head sink into the pillow. The bed smells of him.

Harry climbs on the bed next to me.

‘And you’re delusional if you think I can sleep with you naked. There’s only so much I can take,’ his tone is amused, tender, and I’ll deny melting at the sound of it until the end of my days.

I’ll also deny letting him dress me in those horrible pyjamas. They’re actually the most comfortable thing I ever wore.

‘You look so cute in red,’ he whispers. And then he turns me over and brings his mouth down over mine.

First, it’s only a brush of lips that feels like everything I want. And then his hands climb up my back and he’s on top of me, and my mouth opens for his tongue, and everything slows down. He tastes like sugar inside my mouth. It melts against my tongue. My fingers tangle in his hair. His moan is a breathy, broken thing that feels like a dream.

‘This kiss is going to lead to sex, Potter,’ I whisper against his lips.

I feel him smile and then he’s pushing me down against the mattress, and pulling the covers over us. We’re both hard against each other. But we do nothing about it. His breath quiets me down, gently, slowly. His hand drops to my waist. I fall asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear what you thought/felt. Thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please share with me what you thought/felt. Comments mean the world to me. Thank you for reading.


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